


faith

by kittenscully



Series: fictober 2020 [28]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc (X-Files), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s04e22 Elegy, Season/Series 04, the calm (?) before the storm that is demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully
Summary: There isn’t any way to go on without her. Most days, that’s the only thing he’s certain of.[fictober day 28]
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: fictober 2020 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949467
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	faith

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Are you kidding me?"

It only takes a fraction of the drive home for Mulder to realize he’s made a terrible mistake. 

The idea of leaving Scully alone after something that had clearly traumatized her is unconscionable, no matter how upset he’d been. The guilt soaks him through like freezing rain. 

He had chastised her for her fear like a child, as if he wasn’t so afraid of the same thing himself that he’s built up a faith as blind as hers. 

He sees her curled up on her couch, a listless bundle of limbs, big eyes peering sightlessly into space. He sees her distant, upset with him but unwilling to say so, full mouth pressed into an angry little line. 

Both images send him spiraling, and he rolls through two stoplights before finally pulling over to collect himself. 

There isn’t any way to go on without her. Most days, that’s the only thing he’s certain of.

He sees her in the hospital, too. Sunken and grayed, the way she’d been before deciding to live. That image isn’t new, though, and neither is the nauseated terror that comes with it. He has practice with ignoring it, persuading himself that she’s fine, believing that she’ll live. 

To see it otherwise would kill him, too. 

It only takes a fraction of the drive home for Mulder to realize he’s made a terrible mistake, but it takes him hours of thinking and a pointless attempt at sleep to decide to go to her place.

The clock on the dashboard reads 3:12 A.M. by the time he pulls up outside of her apartment, and he would regret disturbing her if he was even slightly less anxious that she’d never speak to him again. 

He knocks, but doesn’t wait long for her to answer before using his key instead. In the back of his mind, he’s aware that it’s rude to let himself in, especially since it’s been months since he was last here, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Scully?”

No reply, other than his own voice reverberating through her living room. 

He clicks the lights on, and stops in his tracks. 

The plant beside him is long dead, clearly neglected for weeks or more. On the coffee table, there’s a layer of dust thick enough he can see it from the door. The pillows are neat on the couch, every one full and untouched.

He would think that no one was living here at all, if it weren’t for her shoes. Normally neatly organized, they’re haphazard, as if every pair has been kicked off without a second thought. 

A shudder of alarm growing in his stomach, Mulder moves towards the kitchen, confirming his deduction with one glimpse inside her fridge, completely empty. In all the years he’s visited her here, there’s always been fresh groceries, at least for appearances, even when both of them know she doesn’t have the time to cook.

There’s something very, very wrong. 

“Scully,” he calls, again, with increased urgency. 

Were he investigating this living space for a case, he would be calling psychiatric services. 

He’d passed profiling courses with flying colors, and his fingers are itching to reach for her phone and follow protocol. But he won’t – Scully would never have it.

So he does a sweep of the apartment, reasons that if she isn’t here, he’ll call the police instead. Every corner of the kitchen, the living room, the dining area, the bedless abandoned guest room. The master bedroom is the only one that seems remotely inhabited, and only in the most basic sense of the word.

Her lamp is on, illuminating the bare, dusty bedside table. The bathroom door, to his left, is cracked slightly, revealing faint light inside. 

“Scully?” More quietly now.

Lifting his hand to knock, he hesitates, opts for pulling the door open instead. 

His breath catches. 

The sink is filled with bloody tissues. Beside it, the hand towel and washcloth hang neatly, straight and pressed as if ready for guests. 

As if in contrast, Scully herself is crumpled at his feet against the clawfoot tub, fitted blazer hanging open, chin tucked into her chest, hair in disarray. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so small.

For a single, toppling moment, he is certain that she’s gone, and he can’t move at a muscle. He hadn’t pictured this, hadn’t wanted to. 

And then, she shifts, letting out a soft groan, and Mulder catches sight of the dark red stains on the cream of her blouse. 

The sign of life jumpstarts him into action, and he drops into a crouch, reaching for her desperately. 

One shaking hand brushing back her hair, resting against her cool cheek, the other tucked under her chin, gently lifting her head. There’s dried blood on her cracked lips, her chin, and he wonders frantically how much she’s lost. 

His heartbeat is the loudest noise in the dead air of the apartment. 

She isn’t okay, and she isn’t going to be. 

“Scully,” he says, urgently, roughly. Clears his throat. “Scully, honey.”

The denial he’s built up, brick wall sturdy, starts to crumble.

Her face scrunches up a little, and as she sniffles, the relief of seeing her move makes him let out all the air in his chest with a _whoosh_. 

“Mul’er?” She mumbles, seeking him out before she’s even caught sight of him. 

“It’s me,” he tells her, too quickly, panic still evident in his voice. “It’s me, Scully. I’ve gotcha.”

Her eyes blink open, and they’re disoriented, glassy. It takes her a few long, nerve-wracking moments to find him, even with his hands on her face. 

“Mulder,” she repeats, and he nods. When her gaze meets his, her face starts to clear. 

The familiarity is warm, whittling away the raw terror into manageable white noise. As Scully looks up at him, he has the sudden thought that she might be the only other person in the world. It should scare him, but it doesn’t. 

The scary thing is the idea that if, _when_ she’s gone, there will once again be no one else but him. 

“Hey,” he says, cradling her cheek, and she mouths it back at him. “Whatcha doin’ down here?” 

Her brow wrinkles in confusion, and expression shifts into alarm as she finally processes her situation.

Recoiling from him, she floats her hands over her forehead, her nose. Presses them against her chest, over the vivid stain. As if to hide it, as if he hasn’t seen her in far worse states than this.

“Oh, no.” 

He reaches for her again, and she shakes her head, back and forth, back and forth. 

“I must’ve fallen asleep,” she says, stiffly. Fumbles for the edge of the tub and attempts to push herself up.

“Lemme help you.” 

“I’m fine, Mulder.”

Gravity pulls her back down onto the floor before can even start to stand. Mulder catches the back of her head with his hand before she can knock it against the tub, watches her eyes fill with tears. 

He’s been the caretaker so rarely in his life, especially with her, and there’s no room to overthink it. Not when she’s so close to refusing any care, even though she needs it. 

He will do right by her, in the time they have left. 

“Hey,” he soothes. “You were really out cold. It’s no surprise that you’re a little fuzzy, okay?”

A reluctant noise of agreement. She rubs her nose, and doesn’t notice when her fingers come away bloody. She lets him help her to her feet, leans her small frame into his as he does. 

She refuses to look at him. 

But the faint blush of embarrassment on her cheeks reminds him yet again that she’s alive. And that alone is enough to make him forgive her anything, even her pervasive, frustrating refusal to let him see her at anything other than her best.

With her cuddled into his chest, he walks them back into the bedroom, a clumsy four-legged beast smelling of blood and fear. 

Under his hand, her hair is every bit as vibrant as always, and at least that much hasn’t changed.

“Sit.” He helps her to perch on the bed. “I need you to be honest with me, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers. 

“Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“No.”

“Do I need to drive you to a hospital, then?”

She shakes her head. 

“You were on the floor Scully.” He picks up her hand, squeezes it. “On the bathroom floor.”

“I really am fine, Mulder,” she says, eyes on her knees. “I know how it looks, but I saw a doctor earlier today, and there’s been no changes. I just… fell asleep.”

 _There’s been no changes_. 

Before tonight, he would’ve taken that as a good sign, or at least, not a bad one. But she isn’t okay, and she’s barely been living, from the looks of it. Her version of fine has degraded so far that it’s barely recognizable. And he hasn’t even noticed, not until now. 

The shame is sickening. 

He almost wishes he had never noticed at all, that he could keep believing that she’s still perfectly fine, rather than just putting on a strong face for him. And that feels even worse. 

“Has this happened before?” He asks. 

Scully doesn’t answer, only twists her mouth into a small grimace, and he gives her hand another reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’m going to get something to clean you up.” 

“No,” she protests, squeezing her eyes shut. “No, I can do that. You don’t have to worry.”

He stares at her, incredulous. By now, he supposes, he should know better than to think she’d give up the fight.

“Are you kidding me?” Keeping his voice light is an effort, but he does his best, turning towards the bathroom. “I’m already on my feet, Scully. Let me handle it.”

“Wait,” Scully says, voice cracking, and he looks back, ready to get firm with her. 

“What?”

“My, um. My clothes…” 

Feet dangling like a child, slender shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting with the neckline of her stained shirt. His chest constricts at the sight of her.

“I’ll get you pajamas,” he promises. “After.” 

Another nod. 

In the bathroom, Mulder glances briefly at the tissues. Then, he reaches for the washcloth instead, deciding that paper won’t cut it. Dampened under the faucet, it’s worn with use, nowhere near new and yet clean of any stains. 

And he knows why she hasn’t used it, of course he does. He understands the urge not to pollute a perfectly good thing with secrets that will leave a lasting mark. 

But Scully deserves better than disposable care, and she shouldn’t be a stranger in her own home. 

Standing in front of her, he cradles her face in one hand to hold her steady, and starts to gently wipe the blood away. There’s no protest about the cloth, only the slightest relaxation of her mouth, almost as if relieved.

She still won’t look at him, but he doesn’t mind. 

The now reddened washcloth draped over his forearm, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She makes a faint, whimpering noise, and he thinks that she’s crying, tears creeping under his thumb where it rests on her cheek. 

Her skin is smooth against his lips, and he can’t bring himself to regret letting her in, no matter how soon all of it comes to an end.

“Pajamas?” 

“Second drawer,” she mumbles, sniffles. 

The handles of the drawer are dusty, too, and his fingers come away coated gray. As he withdraws a set in satin, he realizes that she must be sleeping in her clothes. 

“Do you want…” 

“I can do it,” Scully says, hoarsely.

There’s a pause as she hesitates, staring down at the floor. Then, she finally meets his gaze, just for a moment. 

“Help me up?”

“As if you need to ask.” He manages a small smile. 

As he pulls her to her feet, she stumbles a little, falling against his chest again. His arms surround her instinctively, cradling her close to make sure she stays upright, fragile as porcelain in his grasp.

And there’s no justification for the long moments they stay like that, her hands curling in his shirt, her small body not nearly warm enough against his.

It’s just that he doesn’t want to let her go, and he isn’t sure that he can.

Finally, Mulder excuses himself into the bathroom as she changes, and rubs the blood out of the washcloth as well as he can, the red bright against the off white basin. He’ll take care of the blouse later, once he can find something to wash it with. Lemon juice had taken care of stains on his shirts in the past, but he doubts she has any of that around, considering the state of her fridge. 

He’ll find her something to eat, get her water. He’ll tuck her into bed, and he’ll stay, on her couch or on her floor or anywhere that she’ll let him. And tomorrow, he’ll make her breakfast, clean her apartment. 

He’ll take care of her, try to stave off his inevitable, catastrophic crash. He'll salvage what little faith he has left.

“Mulder?” She calls, weakly. 

There isn’t any way to go on without her. He’s more certain than ever. But he’ll go on with her, for as long as he can. 

“I’m coming, Scully.”


End file.
